Sometimes I lie awake at night terrified. No, it’s not scary clowns or crazed madmen that keep me awake. It’s not even Mr. Rubin’s breath. It’s books.
Or rather, the sheer number of books.
Recently I read that a “new Kindle book is added to Amazon every five minutes.”
I don’t know how accurate the statistic is, but the idea puts a lump in my throat. With all those books out there, who am I to add another?
Who will read it?
What’s the point?
What’s the meaning of life?
Okay, maybe that’s over-dramatic, but you get the gist.
“Wait,” you argue. “The point of writing is enjoyment of the process, not having readers.”
Sure, sure, and the point of exercising is the delightful gasping, not the healthful benefits.
Let’s be honest. We want readers. Certainly, writing itself brings joy, and stories and blog posts are fun to create. But with the amount of time and effort that goes into a book, most of us want someone to read it.
This post isn’t about marketing or how to get our books out there (or our photography, or artwork, or comics, or blogs). It’s not even about self-doubt. It’s about the fear of irrelevancy and futility. What’s the point of putting another product out there in an already glutted world?
Fortunately, I don’t wallow like this daily. Most times I think, “Hey, this book-writing thing is pretty cool.”
But other days my pragmatic self-nemesis takes over. “Hahaha, hehehe, yakyakyak, stop, Carrie, please, you’re killing me. Like you even stand a chance.”
Do you worry about being redundant? Being swallowed into a sea of surplus? What keeps you up at night?
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